BALLYSPELLIN.

Your ears, your touch, transported much

Each day at Ballyspellin.

Within this ground we all sleep sound,

No noisy dogs a-yelling;
Except you wake, for Cælia's sake,
All night at Ballyspellin.

There all you see, both he and she,
No lady keeps her cell in;
But all partake the mirth we make,
Who drink at Ballyspellin.

My rhymes are gone; I think I've none,
Unless I should bring Hell in ;

But since I'm here to Heaven so near,
I can't at Ballyspellin!

ANSWER.

BY DR. SWIFT.

DARE you dispute, you saucy brute,
And think there's no refelling
Your scurvy lays, and senseless praise
You give to Ballyspellin?

Howe'er you bounce, I here pronounce,
Your medicine is repelling;
Your water 's mud, and sours the blood,
When drunk at Ballyspellin.
Those pocky drabs, to cure their scabs,
You thither are compelling,

Will back be sent, worse than they went.
From nasty Ballyspellin.
Llewellyn why? As well may I

Name honest doctor Pellin;

So hard sometimes you tug for rhymes, To bring in Ballyspellin.

No subject fit to try your wit,

When you went colonelling,

But dull intrigues 'twixt jades and teagues
That met at Ballyspellin.

Our lasses fair, say what you dare,
Who sowing make with shelling,

At Market-hill more beaux can kill,
Than yours at Ballyspellin.

Would I was whipt, when Sheelah stript

To wash herself our well in;

A bum so white ne'er came in sight,

At paltry Ballyspellin.

Your mawkins there smocks hempen wear, Of holland not an ell in;

No, not a rag, whate'er you brag,

Is found at Ballyspellin.

But Tom will prate at any rate,
All other nymphs expelling;
Because he gets a few grisettes

At lousy Ballyspellin.
There's bonny Jane, in yonder lane,

Just o'er against The Bell-inn;
Where can you meet a lass so sweet,
Round all your Ballyspellin?
We have a girl deserves an earl;
She came from Enniskillin:

So fair, so young, no such among

The belles at Ballyspellin.

How would you stare to see her there,
The foggy mist dispelling,
That clouds the brows of every blowse
Who lives at Ballyspellin!

Now as I live I would not give

A stiver for a skellin,

To towse and kiss the fairest miss
That leaks at Ballyspellin.
Whoe'er will raise such lies as these

Deserves a good cudgelling;

Who falsely boasts, of belles and toasts,
At dirty Ballyspellin.

My rhymes, are gone, to all but one,
Which is, our trees are felling;
As proper quite as those you write,
To force in Ballyspellin.

HORACE, PART OF BOOK I. SAT. VI.

PARAPHRASED.

[isle,

IF noisy Tom should in the senate prate,
"That he would answer both for church and state;
And, further to demonstrate his affection,
Would take the kingdom into his protection;"
All mortals must be curious to enquire,
Who could this coxcomb be, and who his sire?
"What! thou, the spawn of him who sham'd our
That traitor, assassin, informer vile!
Though by the female side 3 you proudly bring,
To mend your breed, the murderer of a king;
What was thy grandsire 4 but a mountaineer,
Who held a cabin for ten groats a year;
Whose master Moore' preserv'd him from the halter,
For stealing cows; nor could he read the psalter!
Durst thou, ungrateful, from the senate chace
Thy founder's grandson 6, and usurp his place?
Just Heaven! to see the dunghill bastard brood
Survive in thee, and make the proverb good 7!
Then vote a worthy citizen 8 to jail,

In spite of justice, and refuse his bail!"

1 Sir Thomas Prendergast. IRISH ED.

The father of sir Thomas P, who engaged in a plot to murder king William III; but, to avoid being hanged, turned informer against his associates, for which he was rewarded with a good Ibid. estate, and made a baronet.

3 Cadogan's family. IRISH ED.

A poor thieving cottager, under Mr. Moore, condemned at Clonmell assizes to be hanged for stealing cows. Ibid.

5 The grandfather of Guy Moore, esq. who procured him a pardon. Ibid.

6 Guy Moore was fairly elected member of parliament for Clonmell; but sir Thomas, depending upon his interest with a certain party then prevailing, and since known by the title of Parson-hunters, petitioned the house against him; out of which he was turned, upon pretence of bribery, which the payIbid. ing of his lawful debts was then voted to be. 7" Save a thief from the gallows, and he will cut your throat." Ibid.

Mr. George Faulkner. See the verses in the following page. N.

ON A PRINTER'S

BEING SENT TO NEWGATE.

BETTER We all were in our graves
Than live in slavery to slaves,
Worse than the anarchy at sea,
Where fishes on each other prey;

Where every trout can make as high rants

O'er his inferiors as our tyrants,
And swagger while the coast is clear:
But, should a lordly pike appear,
Away you see the varlet scud,
Or hide his coward snout in mud.
Thus, if a gudgeon meet a roach,
He dare not venture to approach;
Yet still has impudence to rise,
And, like Domitian, leap at flies.

THE DAY OF JUDGMENT1.

WITH a whirl of thought oppress'd,
I sunk from réverie to rest.
An horrid vision seiz'd my head,
I saw the graves give up their dead!
Jove, arm'd with terrours, burst the skies,
And thunder roars, and lightning flies!
Amaz'd, confus'd, its fate unknown,
The world stands trembling at his throne!
While each pale sinner hung his head,
Jove nodding, shook the Heavens, and said:
"Offending race of human-kind,
By nature, reason, learning, blind;
You who, through frailty, stepp'd aside;
And you who never fell, through pride;
You who in different sects were shamm'd,
And come to see each other damn'd,
(So some folk told you, but they knew
No more of Jove's designs than you);
-The world's mad business now is o'er,
And I resent these pranks no more.
-I to such blockheads set my wit'
I damn such fools!-Go, go, you 're bit."

VERSES SENT TO THE DEAN

ON HIS BIRTH-DAY,

WITH FINE'S HORACE, FINELY BOUND,
BY DR. J. SICAN 2.
-[Horace speaking]

YOU'VE read, sir, in poetic strain,
How Varus and the Mantuan swain
Have on my birth-day been invited
(But I was fore'd in verse to write it)
Upon a plain repast to dine,
And taste my old Campanian wine;
But I, who all punctilios hate,
Though long familiar with the great,

1 That this poem is the genuine production of the dean, lord Chesterfield bears ample testimony in his Letter to M. Voltaire, Aug. 27, 1752. N.

2 This ingenious young gentleman was unfortunately murdered in Italy. N.

Nor glory in my reputation,
Am come without an invitation;

And, though I'm us'd to right Falernian,
I'll deign for once to taste Iernian;
But fearing that you might dispute
(Had I put on my common suit)
My breeding and my politesse,
I visit in a birth-day dress;
My coat of purest Turkey red,
With gold embroidery richly spread;
To which I've sure as good pretensions
As Irish lords who starve on pensions.
What though proud ministers of state
Did at your anti-chamber wait;

What though your Oxfords and your St. John
Have at your levee paid attendance;
And Peterborough and great Ormond,
With many chiefs who now are dormant,
Have laid aside the general's staff
And public cares, with you to laugh;
Yet I some friends as good can name,
Nor less the darling sons of fame;
For sure my Pollio and Mæcenas
Were as good statesmen, Mr. Dean, as.
Either your Bolingbroke or Harley,
Though they made Lewis beg a parley:
And as for Mordaunt, your lov'd hero,
I'll match him with my Drusus Nero.
You'll boast, perhaps, your favourite Pope;
But Virgil is as good, I hope.

I own indeed I can't get any

To equal Helsham and Delany;

Since Athens brought forth Socrates,

A Grecian isle Hippocrates;

Since Tully liv'd before my time,

And Galen bless'd another clime.

You'll plead perhaps, at my request,

To be admitted as a guest,

"Your hearing 's bad!"-But why such fears?
I speak to eyes, and not to ears;
And for that reason wisely took
The form you see me in, a book.
Attack'd by slow-devouring moths,

By rage of barbarous Huns and Goths;
By Bentley's notes, my deadliest foes,
By Creech's rhymes and Dunster's prose;

I found my boasted wit and fire
In their rude hands almost expire:
Yet still they but in vain assail'd;
For, had their violence prevail'd,
And in a blast destroy'd my fame,
They would have partly miss'd their aim;
Since all my spirit in thy page

Defies the Vandals of this age.

"Tis

yours to save these small remains From future pedants' muddy brains,

And fix my long-uncertain fate,

You best know how-which way?-TRANSLATE

ON PSYCHE 1.

Ar two afternoon for our Psyche inquire,
Her tea-kettle 's ou, and her smock at the fire;
So loitering, so active; so busy, so idle;
Which hath she most need of, a spur or a bridle

1 Mrs. Sican, a very ingenious well-bred lady, mother to the author of the preceding poem. N.

race,

THE DEAN AND DUKE.

Thus a greyhound out-runs the whole pack in a
[place,
Yet would rather be hang'd than he'd leave a warm
She gives you such plenty, it puts you in pain;
But ever with prudence takes care of the main. [bit;
To please you, she knows how to choose a nice
For her taste is almost as retin'd as her wit
To oblige a good friend, she will trace every market.
It would do your heart good, to see how she will
cark it.

Yet beware of her arts; for, it plainly appears,
She saves half her victuals by feeding your ears.

THE DEAN AND DUKE, 1734.

JAMES BRYDGES and the dean had long been friends;
James is beduk'd; of course their friendship ends:
But sure the dean deserves a sharp rebuke,
From knowing James, to boast he knows the duke.
Yet, since just Heaven the duke's ambition mocks,
Since all he got by fraud is lost by stocks,

His wings are clipp'd: he tries no more in vain
With bands of fiddlers to extend his train.
Since he no more can build, and plant, and revel,
The duke and dean seem near upon a level.
Oh wert thou not a duke, my good duke Humphry,
From bailiff's claws thou scarce couldst keep thy
bum free.

A duke to know a dean! go, smooth thy crown:
Thy brother (far thy betters) wore a gown.
Well, but a duke thou art; so pleas'd the king
Oh! would his majesty but add a string!

ON

DR. RUNDLE, BISHOP OF DERYA

MAKE Rundle bishop! fie for shame!
An Arian to usurp the name!

A bishop in the isle of Saints'

How will his brethren make complaints!
Dare any of the mitred host
Confer on him the Holy Ghost;

In mother-church to breed a variance,
By coupling Orthodox with Arians?

Yet, were he Heathen, Turk, or Jew,
What is there in it strange or new?
For, let us hear the weak pretence
His brethren find to take offence;
Of whom there are but four at most,
Who know there is an Holy Ghost :
The rest, who boast they have conferr'd it,
Like Paul's Ephesians, never heard it;
And, when they gave it, well 'tis known,
They gave what never was their own.

Rundle a bishop! well he may; He's still a Christian more than they. We know the subject of their quarrels ; The man has learning, sense, and morals. There is a reason still more weighty; Tis granted he believes a Deity;

Promoted to that see in February 1734-5. N.

ON DR. RUNDLE

Has every circumstance to please us,
Though fools may doubt his faith in Jesus,
But why should he with that be loaded,
Now twenty years from court exploded?
And is not this objection odd

From rogues who ne'er believ'd a God?
For liberty a champion stout,
Though not so gospel-ward devout;
While others, hither sent to save us,
Came but to plunder and enslave us;
Nor ever own'd a power divine,
But Mammon in the German line.
Say, how did Rundle undermine 'em?
Who show'd a better jus divinum?
From ancient canons would not vary,
But thrice refus'd episcopari.

Our bishop's predecessor, Magus,
Would offer all the sands of Tagus,
Or sell his children, house, and lands,
For that one gift, to lay-on hands:
But all his gold could not avail
To have the Spirit set to sale.
Said surly Peter, "Magus, pr'y thee,
Be gone thy money perish with thee.'
Were Peter now alive, perhaps

He might have found a score of chaps,
Could he but make his gift appear
In rents three thousand pounds a year.
Some fancy this promotion odd,
As not the handy-work of God;
Though e'en the bishops disappointed
Must own it made by God's anointed,
And, well we know, the congé regal
Is more secure as well as legal;
Because our lawyers all agree,
That bishoprics are held in fee.

Dear Baldwin chaste, and witty Crosse,
How sorely I lament your loss!
That such a pair of wealthy ninnies

Should slip your time of dropping guineas; For, had you made the king your debtor, Your title had been so much better.

Tell us, what the pile contains?
Many a head that holds no brains.
These demoniacs let me dub
With the name of Legion-club.
Such assemblies, you might swear
Meet when butchers bait a bear;
Such a noise, and such baranguing,
When a brother thief is hanging;
Such a rout and such a rabble
Run to hear Jack-pudden gabble;
Such a crowd their ordure throws
On a far less villain's nose.

Could I from the building's top
Hear the rattling thunder drop,
While the devil upon the roof
(If the devil be thunder-proof)
Should with poker fiery red

Crack the stones, and melt the lead;
Drive them down on every scull,
While the den of thieves is full;
Quite destroy the harpies' nest;
How might then our isle be blest!
For divines allow, that God
Sometimes makes the devil his rod;
And the gospel will inform us,
He can punish sins enormous.

Yet should Swift endow the schools,
For his lunatics and fools,
With a rood or two of land;

I allow the pile may stand.
You perhaps will ask me, Why so?"
But it is with this proviso:
Since the house is like to last,
Let the royal grant be pass'd,
That the club have right to dwell
Each within his proper cell,
With a passage left to creep in,.
And a hole above for peeping.
Let them when they once get in,
Sell the nation for a pin ;
While they sit-a picking straws,
Let them rave at making laws;
While they never hold their tongue,
Let them dabble in their dung :
Let them form a grand committee,
How to plague and starve the city;
Let them stare, and storm, and frown,
When they see a clergy-gown;
Let them, ere they crack a louse,
Call for th' orders of the house;
Let them with their gosling quills,
Scribble senseless heads of bills.

We may, while they strain their throats,
Wipe our a-s with their votes,

Let sir Tom 1, that rampant ass,
Stuff his guts with flax and grass;
But before the priest he fleeces,
Tear the bible all to pieces:
At the parsons, Tom, halloo, boy,
Worthy offspring of a shoe-boy,
Footman, traitor, vile seducer,
Perjur'd rebel, brib'd accuser,
Lay thy paltry privilege aside,
Sprung from papists, and a regicide;
Fall a-working like a mole,
Raise the dirt about your hole.

Come, assist me, Muse obedient!

Let us try some new expedient;

1 A privy-counsellor, mentioned in p. 525, N.

Shift the scene for half an hour,
Time and place are in thy power.
Thither, gentle Muse, conduct me;
I shall ask, and you instruct me.
See, the Muse unbars the gate!
Hark, the monkeys, how they prate!

All ye gods who rule the soul !
Styx, through Hell whose waters roll!
Let me be allow'd to tell,
What I heard in yonder Hell.

Near the door an entrance gapes,
Crowded round with antic shapes,
Poverty, and Grief, and Care,
Causeless Joy, and true Despair;
Discord periwigg'd with snakes,

See the dreadful strides she takes!
By this odious crew beset,

I began to rage and fret,

And resolv'd to break their pates,
Ere we enter'd at the gates;

Had not Clio in the nick

Whisper'd me, "Lay down your stick."

What," said I, "is this the mad-house ?” "These" she answer'd, "are but shadows," "Phantoms bodiless and vain, Empty visions of the brain."

In the porch Briareus stands,
Shows a bribe in all his hands;
Briareus the secretary,

But we mortals call him Carey.
When the rogues their country fleece,
They may hope for pence a-piece.
Clio, who had been so wise
To put-on a fool's disguise,
To bespeak some approbation,
And be thought, a near relation,
When she saw three hundred brutes
All involv'd in wild disputes,
Roaring till their lungs were spent,
PRIVILEGE OF PARLIAMENT,
Now a new misfortune feels,
Dreading to be laid by th' heels.
Never durst a Muse before
Enter that infernal door;
Clio, stifled with the smell,
Into spleen and vapours fell,
By the Stygian steams that flew
From the dire infectious crew.
Not the stench of lake Avernus
Could have more offended her nose;
Had she flown but o'er the top,
She had felt her pinions drop,
And by exhalations dire,
Though a goddess, must expire.
In a fright she crept away;
Bravely I resolv'd to stay.

When I saw the keeper frown,
Tipping him with half a crown,
Now," said I, "we are alone,
Name your heroes one by one.

"Who is that hell-featur'd brawler?

Is it Satan?" "No, 'tis Waller."
"In what figure can a bard dress
Jack, the grandson of sır Hardress?
Honest keeper, drive him further,
In his looks are hell and murther;
See the scowling visage drop,
Just as when he murder'd T-p.
Keeper, show me where to fix
On the puppy pair of Dicks;

By their lantern jaws and leathern,
You might swear they both are brethren:

Dick Fitz-Baker. Dick the player,
Old acquaintance, are you there?
Dear companions, hug and kiss,
Toast Old Glorious in your piss:
Tie them, keeper, in a tether,
Let them starve and stink together;
Both are apt to be unruly,

Lash them daily, lash them duly;
Though 'tis hopeless to reclaim them,
Scorpion rods perhaps may tame them.
Keeper, yon old dotard smoke,
Sweetly snoring in his cloak:
Who is he? "Tis humdrum Wynne,
Half encompass'd by his kin:
There observe the tribe of Bingham.
For he never fails to bring 'em;
While he sleeps the whole debate,
They submissive round him wait;
Yet would gladly see the hunks
In his grave, and search his trunks.
See they gently twitch his coat,
Just to yawn and give his vote,
Always firm in his vocation,
For the court against the nation.
Those are A-s Jack and Bob,
First in every wicked job,
Son and brother to a queer
Brain-sick brute, they call a peer.
We must give them better quarter,
For their ancestor trod mortar,
And H-th, to boast his fame,
On a chimney cut his name.

There sit Clements, D-ks, and Harrison:

How they swagger from their garrison!
Such a triplet could you tell

Where to find on this side Hell?

Harrison, and D-ks, and Clements,

Keeper, see they have their payments;
Every mischief 's in their hearts:

If they fail, 'tis want of parts.

Bless us, Morgan! art thou there, man!
Bless mine eyes! art thou the chairman !
Chairman to your damn'd committee!
Yet I look on thee with pity.
Dreadful sight! what! learned Morgan
Metamorphos'd to a Gorgon?
For thy horrid looks, I own,
Half convert me to a stone.
Hast thou been so long at school,

Now to turn a factious tool?

Alma Mater was thy mother,

Every young divine thy brother.

Thou, a disobedient varlet,

Treat thy mother like a harlot !
Thou ungrateful to thy teachers,
Who are all grown reverend preachers!
Morgan, would it not surprise one!
Turn thy nourishment to poison !
When you walk among your books,
They reproach you with their looks:
Bind them fast, or from their shelves
They will come and right themselves;
Homer, Plutarch, Virgil, Flaccus,

All in arms prepare to back us:
Soon repent, or put to slaughter
Every Greek and Roman author.
VOL. XI.

Will you, in your faction's phrase,
Send the clergy all to graze,
And, to make your project pass,
Leave them not a blade of grass?

How I want thee, humorous Hogarth!
Thou, I hear, a pleasant rogue art.
Were but you and I acquainted,
Every monster should be painted:
You should try your graving-tools
On this odious groupe of fools;
Draw the beasts as I describe them
From their features, while I gibe them;
Draw them like; for I assure you,
You will need no car' catura;
Draw them So, that we may trace
All the soul in every face.

Keeper, I must now retire,
You have done what I desire:
But I feel my spirits spent

With the noise, the sight, the scent.
"Pray be patient; you shall find
Half the best are still behind :
You have hardly seen a score:
I can show two hundred more."
Keeper, I have seen enough.-
Taking then a pinch of snuff,

I concluded, looking round them,

"May their god, the devil, confound them!"

AN APOLOGY, &c.

A LADY, wise as well as fair,

Whose conscience always was her care, Thoughtful upon a point of moment, Would have the text as well as comment: So hearing of a grave divine,

She sent to bid him come and dine.

But you must know, he was not quite
So grave as to be unpolite;

Thought human learning would not lessen
The dignity of his profession;

And, if you 'd heard the man discourse,
Or preach, you'd like him scarce the worse.
He long had bid the court farewell,
Retreating silent to his cell;
Suspected for the love he bore
To one who sway'd some time before;
Which made it more surprising how
He should be sent for thither now.

The message told, he gapes and stares,
And scarce believes his eyes or ears:
Could not conceive what it should mean,
And fain would hear it told again.
But then the 'squire so trim and nice,
'Twere rude to make him tell it twice:
So bow'd, was thankful for the honour;
And would not fail to wait upon her.
His beaver brush'd, his shoes, and gown,
Away he trudges into town;
Passes the lower castle-yard;
And now advancing to the guard,

He trembles at the thoughts of state;
For, conscious of his sheepish gait,
His spirits of a sudden fail'd him;
He stopt, and could not tell what ail'd him.
M m